


Unravelling

by Arnie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnie/pseuds/Arnie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach Fall, Mycroft begins to put the world to rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unravelling

**Author's Note:**

> Contains massive spoilers for Reichenbach Fall.

Making his way into the flat, Mycroft made sure to securely lock the door behind him. One could never be too careful, after all. The sitting room was through the first door on the right and, as he entered, Sherlock looked up at him from where he sat, slouched on the sofa as he cleaned and checked a handgun.

Mycroft smiled, hiding the relief he felt; there had been a great many risks involved, despite his attention to detail to ensure Sherlock survived his so-called suicide. "You're looking remarkably healthy for a corpse," he commented.

"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded, putting the gun to one side and fixing his gaze on Mycroft.

"Under sedation in hospital." Mycroft paused, looking his brother over. He doubted if even John Watson would recognise him now. The dark curls were gone, shorn and dyed to a lighter brown. The pale eyes were now dark brown, and the long face was framed by sideburns that joined onto a wispy beard. Add to that a moustache that hid that distinctive top lip and Sherlock looked very different indeed. "I thought it was better until I could keep more of my attention on him."

"You know he'll fight you on that."

"Relax, brother; I'm well aware of John's stubborn streak." If... _when_ Sherlock returned, he'd return to find his world intact. On that, Mycroft was determined. "I won't allow John to destroy himself - metaphorically or literally." No matter what. He was well aware that John blamed him for 'falling' for Moriarty's ploy, and also too well aware that clearing his name of that charge would have to wait until Sherlock returned. But, whatever it took, he would see that John remained alive and as well as Mycroft could ensure.

There was frustrated anger in Sherlock's eyes but, for once, he didn't express it. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"At home."

"Lestrade?"

"Also at home - suspended on full pay." As Sherlock's mouth twisted in annoyance, Mycroft forestalled the forthcoming criticism. "An investigation is inevitable, Sherlock. However, my people are in control of it; Lestrade and the other officers you worked with will be cleared of any wrong doing, and Chief Superintendent Stanton will look more of a fool than ever. After all, he was well aware of that press conference at which the great Sherlock Holmes was publically thanked by the Yard. Joining in the witch hunt and cries of fraud was hardly a clever move." Mycroft smirked. "His superiors are quite annoyed with him."

"Lestrade may try to take the blame for letting me work on all those cases," Sherlock pointed out. "It would be typical of him."

Mycroft tilted his head, acknowledging the truth. "His surveillance team are watching him closely, with strict orders to make sure he does nothing foolish."

He got a nod for that, which was more than he'd expected. Then, "Stanton's charges against John?"

"Never filed. Despite his broken nose - and I really must take care to avoid provoking John - Stanton was persuaded to let the matter rest." Mycroft's smile widened. Stanton was too busy squirming on the end of a hook to worry about Sherlock Holmes's flatmate. The police commissioner had already admitted it had been a mistake to promote Stanton to Chief Superintendent, and Mycroft could see early retirement in Stanton's future - if he had any sense, that was.

Sherlock stood and began to pace. "What about the body?"

"Yours or Moriarty's?" At the impatient look, Mycroft huffed a soft laugh. "Moriarty's body has been removed to a crematorium." He raised a hand to silence Sherlock. "Anthea was on the roof before you did your overly dramatic swan dive and she didn't take her eyes off the body until it was reduced to ash. If Moriarty wasn't dead before, he most certainly is now. Cremation tends to do that to people."

"He's definitely dead then."

The relief in Sherlock's voice was interesting, and Mycroft put the thought to one side to consider it later. "Trust me, brother mine; even Moriarty will have difficulty resurrecting himself from a pot full of ashes. And I intend to see they'll be spread far and wide."

"The hit men?"

Mycroft was aware of the growing edge to Sherlock's voice. His brother, never the most patient of men, was loathing being sidelined at this point. He would far rather have been in the middle of things - bullying anyone who opposed him while digging up facts about the hit men Moriarty had hired. Mycroft offered a small sop to Sherlock's pride: "You were right. John's hit man was watching him outside Bart's." Taking a seat in one of the annoyingly uncomfortable armchairs, Mycroft opened his briefcase and handed over the top file. "Jean-Claude Russo. French, obviously. A mature student at London's School of Economics."

Sherlock thudded down onto the sofa again and flipped open the file, casting one long look at the photo enclosed before he flicked through to the background report. "Their standards have slipped."

Mycroft hummed in agreement. "It seems they'll let anyone in."

"Do we know anything about the others?"

Smiling at the proprietorial 'we', Mycroft gave him the next file and watched the annoyance appear on Sherlock's face as he recognised the man in the picture.

"The handyman."

"Indeed. It seems Mrs. Hudson inadvertently hired her own hit man. Lakeland's cover is quite adequate - he _is_ a handyman who runs his own business...except when he's being hired to kill people."

There was a quiet sigh as Sherlock put the file on top of the other, then he asked, "And Lestrade's?"

"Now this one is rather intriguing. Detective Sergeant Meyer." As Sherlock's gaze met his, Mycroft continued, "He recently transferred to the Yard, which is giving my investigation into the Yard a new twist. It seems Moriarty had his fingers in many pies."

"Including the media," Sherlock reminded him.

"Ah, Miss Kitty Reilly." Mycroft removed the last file from the case and passed it over as Sherlock dropped Meyer's file on top of the others. "Unfortunately for Miss Reilly, she is not a journalist - merely a would-be one in Moriarty's employ. It seems someone will shortly leak news of her rather lurid background to the press, and they do so hate to be lied to." Mycroft found that a rather endearing trait considering their propensity to lie to and about others.

Sherlock sat back, his hands steepled under his chin. "And then what?"

"We - or rather my people - are already tracing their connections. Once we know exactly how they're connected to Moriarty's web, we can snip the strands." Mycroft looked down at his hands to avoid gazing at the badly chosen pictures hanging on the walls. "I suspect they're low level people; hired for the job and not among Moriarty's inner circle...if he had an inner circle, that is."

"He had to. No one could run an operation that big by themselves. Somewhere, there'll be an inner circle...the ones left behind."

"You know you'll have to find them all before the others will be safe." Mycroft didn't often have to state the obvious to his brother, but he needed to know Sherlock recognised the fact. The long disdainful glance he got told him everything he needed to know. "I thought so." Picking up the last item in his briefcase, Mycroft handed it over reluctantly. The contents and Sherlock's handgun were all he'd have to keep him safe. "Your new identity. Passport, driving licence, car keys, credit and debit cards, oh, and a new mobile phone." As Sherlock slipped it from the envelope and looked it over, Mycroft added, "I've...taken the liberty of adding a few numbers."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose as he gazed at the contacts list. "Emma?"

"Emergency." Mycroft gazed at the wall; this really was a poorly decorated flat. "Call that number and you'll receive help as soon as I can get it to you."

"Mike. Pretty obvious."

Mycroft looked back in time to catch the slightly amused quirk to his lips.

"And Mona."

"Money, in case you need more. Please try not to spend it on anything too frivolous; I'd prefer to leave my retirement fund intact."

There was silence for a few moments, then Sherlock began putting his gun and new possessions away. "I'll try to keep in touch - when it's safe."

"Understood."

Sherlock stood and held out his hand, the keys to the flat dangling from his fingers.

"Keep them." Unable to stop himself, Mycroft stood and wrapped Sherlock's fingers about the keys. "In case you need a bolthole."

Those dark, unfamiliar eyes met his. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

He left, and Mycroft waited, giving him time to reach the garage and find his car. It wasn't until the sound of the engine had died away that he moved, strolling slowly to the door before giving a glance around. If...when... _when_ Sherlock returned, he'd have the place redecorated. Or sell it. Yes, maybe selling it would be better.

~~~

Greg sighed to himself with relief as he shut his office door behind him and leaned on it to keep everyone out. So far, he'd seen his new boss (Stanton was nowhere to be seen, for some reason and everyone was tight-lipped on that one), and endured multiple congratulations on his reinstatement, not that he'd been officially dismissed. For once, the internal investigation had moved quickly, and Greg, and his team, were back at work. Greg suspected he had Mycroft Holmes to thank for that - not only for the rapid results but also for any of them having any jobs left at all, though Greg wasn't sure how well he'd be able to work with Donovan and Anderson now. He was also wondering if he had Mycroft to thank for a new boss, but surely he hadn't got involved to that extent. Greg shook his head as he sat down. The man was a Holmes; rearranging people's lives seemed to be his hobby.

Holmes. Sherlock. Greg took a deep breath and rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the ache that had settled there after Sherlock's death. He'd managed to see John several times - in between grieving on his own behalf and worrying about the investigation - and it was frightening to see how devastated John was. He'd moved out from 221B, into a bedsit that was surprisingly secure - Mycroft again, Greg suspected. He just hoped Mycroft could stop John from spiralling down too far. And that John would let him, let them, help. He hoped.

A knock on the door interrupted his increasingly depressing thoughts, and he looked up, calling, "Come in!" in as normal a voice as he could manage.

Donovan entered, and stood there, looking almost hesitant, then she pulled herself upright. "We've got a case."

"Let's go then." At least it'd help get them through the first day. Maybe it'd be easier after that. "So who's the victim?"

"Name of Lakeland. A handyman. Seems he was up a ladder with a hod full of bricks and a rung gave way."

Greg shrugged as he led the way out. "Sounds like an accident to me...but we'll see when we get there."

"Talking of accidents," Donovan continued, sounding a bit more like herself, "did you hear about Meyer?"

"Meyer...Meyer..." Greg was having a hard time pinning that name down. Maybe he had been away too long.

"DS, just transferred in."

"Oh...Meyer!" Greg was pretty sure he'd met him. Once. Maybe. "So what's up with him?"

"He crashed his car drink-driving. Killed instantly, they said."

"Jesus! Anyone else hurt?"

"Not that I heard. It only happened yesterday."

"Lestrade, glad you could make it back." Greg stopped as Smithson poked him in the chest. "I see the new boss let you back in, then. So he's not all good news."

Greg shoved his hand away. "They didn't have any coppers doing any work around here, so they begged us to come back. And if you're just getting in now, I'm not surprised. Been skiving, have you?"

"You wish! I just got back from a drowning case - a student from the LSE. Seems he was playing silly beggars in a pool and ran out of breath."

"It happens." It seemed they couldn't go a season without someone learning that water was fatal.

"The guy was old enough to know better though - he was a mature student." Smithson shrugged. "He was probably showing off to all the pretty, young things in bikinis. You should have seen some of them - barely wearing enough to cover..." His voice trailed off as he looked to where Donovan was standing. "Well, I'll see you later."

Greg hid his smile. At least that was one way to shut Smithson up. He pushed open the door and blinked as sunshine hit his eyes. It looked like the clouds were clearing.

The end.


End file.
